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VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


RUFUS  DAWES. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  CARTER  &  IIENDEE, 

M  DCCC  XXX. 


I };  1. 1;  ttfl  J 

i  nil  iri  hi  hi 


Waitt  &  Dow’s  PmrrT.w.. Boston*. 


TO  GEORGE  LUNT,  ESQ. 

This  volume  is  respectfully  dedicated. 


By  his  Friend, 
RUFUS 


DAWES 


1 099495 


* 


VALLEY  OF  THU  NASHAWAY, 


The  queen  of  May  has  bound  her  virgin  brow, 
And  hung  with  blossoms  every  fruit-tree  bough; 
The  sweet  Southwest,  among  the  early  flowers, 
Whispers  the  coming  of  delighted  hours, 

While  birds,  within  the  heaping  foliage,  sing 
Their  music-welcome  to  returning  Spring. 

Oh,  Nature !  loveliest  in  thy  green  attire, 

Dear  mother  of  the  passion-kindling  lyre ; 

Thou,  who  in  early  days,  upled’st  me  where 
The  mountains  freeze  above  the  Summer  air ; 

Or  lured’st  my  wandering  way  beside  the  streams, 
To  watch  the  bubbles  as  they  mocked  my  dreams, 
Lead  me  again,  thy  flowery  paths  among, 

To  sing  of  native  scenes,  as  yet  unsung ! 

Sweet  Nashaway  !  thy  fond  remembrance  brings 
Thoughts,  like  the  music  of  AColian  strings, 


6 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


When  the  hushed  wind  breathes  only,  as  it  sleeps, 
While  tearful  Love  his  anxious  vigil  keeps : — - 
When  pressed  with  grief,  or  ssJai  with  the  show, 
That  Pleasure’s  pageant  offers  here  bdow, 

MliVi  scenes  of  heartless  mirth  or  joyllss  glee, 
How  oft  my  aching  heart  has  turned  to  thee, 

And  lived  again,  in  memory’s  sweet  recess, 

The  innocence  of  youthful  happiness  ! 

In  life’s  dull  dream,  when  want  of  sordid  gain 
Clings  to  our  being  with  its  cank’ring  chain, 

When  lofty  thoughts  are  cramped  to  stoop  below 
The  vile,  rank  -weeds  that  in  their  pathway  grow, 
Who  would  not  turn  amid’st  the  darkened  scene, 

To  memoried  spots  where  sunbeams  intervene ; 

And  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  joyous  hours, 

When  youth  built  up  his  pleasure-dome  of  flowers  ? 
Now,  while  the  music  of  the  feathered  choir 
Rings  where  the  sheltering  blossoms  wake  desire, 
When  dew-eyed  Love  looks  tenderness,  and  speaks 
A  silent  language  with  his  mantling  cheeks ; 

I  think  of  those  delicious  moments  past, 

Which  joyless  age  shall  dream  of  to  the  last ; 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


7 


As  now,  though  far  removed,  the  Muse  would  tell, 
Though  few  may  listen,  what  she  loved  so  well. 

Dear  hours  of  childhood,  youth’s  propitious  spring, 
When  Time  fanned  only  roses  with  his  wing, 

When  dreams,  that  mock  reality,  could  move 
To  yield  an  endless  holy-day  to  Love, 

How  do  ye  crowd  upon  my  fevered  brain, 

And  in  imagination,  live  again  ! 

Lo  !  I  am  with  you  now,  the  sloping  green, 

Of  many  a  sunny  hill  is  freshly  seen ; 

Once  more  the  purple  clover  bends  to  meet, 

And  shower  the  dew  drops  on  their  pilgrim’s  feet ; 
Once  more  he  breathes  the  fragrance  of  your  fields, 
Once  more  the  orchard  tree  its  harvest  yields, 

Again  he  hails  the  morning  from  your  hills, 

And  drinks  the  cooling  water  of  your  rills, 

While  with  a  heart  subdued,  he  feels  the  power 
Of  every  humble  shrub  and  modest  flower. 

Oh  thou  who  journiest  through  that  eden  clime, 
Winding  thy  devious  way  to  cheat  the  time, 
Delightful  Nashaway !  beside  thy  stream, 


8 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


Fain  would  I  paint  thy  beauties  as  they  gleam. 
Eccentric  river  !  poet  of  the  woods  ! 

Where,  in  thy  far-secluded  solitudes, 

The  wood-nymphs  sport  and  naiads  plash  thy  wave 
With  charms  more  sweet  than  ever  fancy  gave, 
How  oft  with  Mantua’s  bard,  from  school  let  free, 
I’ve  conn’d  the  silver  lines  that  flow  like  thee, 
Couched  on  thy  emerald  banks,  at  full  length  laid, 
Where  classic  elms  grew  lavish  of  their  shade, 

Or  indolently  listened,  while  the  throng 
Of  idler  beings  woke  their  Summer  song ; 

Or  with  rude  angling  gear,  outw'atched  the  Sun, 
Comparing  mine,  to  deeds  by  Walton  done. 

Far  down  the  silent  stream,  where  arching  trees 
Bend  their  green  boughs  so  gently  to  the  breeze, 
One  live,  broad  mass  of  molten  crystal  lies, 
Clasping  the  mirrored  beauties  of  the  skies  ! 

Look,  how  the  sunshine  breaks  upon  the  plains ! 

So  the  deep  blush  their  flattered  glory  stains. 

Romantic  river  !  on  thy  quiet  breast, 

While  flashed  the  salmon  with  his  lightning  crest, 
Not  long  ago  the  Indian’s  thin  canoe 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


9 


Skimmed  lightly  as  the  shadow  which  it  threw  ; 

Not  long  ago,  beside  thy  banks  of  green, 

The  nightfire  blazed  and  spread  its  dismal  sheen. 

Thou  peaceful  Valley !  when  I  think  how  fair 
Thy  various  beauty  shines,  beyond  compare, 

I  cannot  choose  but  own  the  Power  that  gave 
Amidst  thy  woes  a  helping  hand  to  save, 

When  o’er  thy  hills  the  savage  war-whoop  came, 
And  desolation  raised  its  funeral  flame  ! 

’T  is  night !  the  stars  are  kindled  in  the  sky, 

And  hunger  wakes  the  famished  she-wolf’s  cry, 
While  o’er  the  crusted  snow,  the  careful  tread 
Betrays  the  heart  whose  pulses  throb  with  dread ; 
Yon  flickering  light,  kind  beacon  of  repose  ! 

The  weary  wanderer’s  homely  dwelling  show’s, 

Wh  ere  by  the  blazing  fire,  his  bosom’s  joy 
Holds  to  her  heart  a  slumbering  infant  boy ; 

While  every  sound  her  anxious  bosom  moves, 

She  starts  and  listens  for  the  one  she  loves ; 

Hark !  was ’t  the  the  night-bird’s  cry  that  met  her  ear, 
Curdling  the  blood  that  thickens  with  cold  fear  ? — 
“Again!  oh  God,  that  voice,  ’t is  his  !  ’tis  his  !” 


10 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


She  hears  the  death-shriek  and  the  arrow’s  whiz, 
When  as  she  turns,  she  sees  the  bursting  door 
Roll  her  dead  husband  bleeding  on  the  floor. 

* 

Loud  as  the  burst  of  sudden  thunder,  rose 
The  mad’ning  war-cry  of  the  ambushed  foes, 
Startling  in  sleep,  the  dreamless  infant  wakes, 

Like  morning’s  smile  when  daylight’s  slumber  breaks, 
“  For  mercy  !  spare  my  child,  forbear  the  blow  !” 

In  vain ; — the  warm  blood  crimsons  on  the  snow. 

O’er  the  cold  earth  the  captive  mother  sighs, 

Her  ears  still  tortured  by  her  infant’s  cries ; 

She  cannot  weep,  but  deep  resolve,  unmoved, 

Plots  vengeance  for  the  victims  so  beloved ; 

Lo  1  by  their  fire,  the  glutted  warriors  lie, 

Locked  in  the  deathsleep  of  ebriety, 

When  from  her  bed  of  snow,  whence  slumber  flew, 
The  phrenzied  woman  rose  the  deed  to  do ; — 
Firmly  beside  the  senseless  men  of  blood, 

With  vengeful  arm,  the  wretched  mother  stood ; 

She  hears  her  groaning,  dying  lord  expire, 

Her  woman’s  heart  nerves  up  with  mad’ning  fire ) 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


II 


She  sees  her  infant  dashed  against  the  tree, — 

’T  is  done  ! — the  red-men  sleep  eternally. 

Such  were  thy  wrongs  sweet  Nashaway,  but  now, 
No  spot  so  peaceful  and  serene  as  thou ; 

Thy  hills  and  fields  in  chequered  richness  stand, 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  land. 

From  calm  repose,  while  glowed  the  eastern  sky, 
And  the  fresh  breeze  went  fraught  with  fragrance  by, 
Waked  by  the  noisy  Pecker,  free  from  care, 

What  joy  was  mine,  to  drink  the  morning  air  ! 

Not  all  the  bliss  maturer  life  can  bring, 

When  ripened  manhood  soars  with  strengthened  wing, 
Not  all  the  rapture,  fancy  ever  wove, 

Nor  less  than  that  which  springs  from  mutual  love, 
Could  challenge  mine,  when  to  the  ravished  sense, 
The  sunrise  painted  God’s  magnificence  ! 

George-hill !  thou  pride  of  Nashaway,  for  thee, — 
Thyself  the  garden  of  fertility, — 

Nature  has  hung  a  picture  to  the  eye, 

Where  Beauty  smiles  at  sombre  Majesty. 

The  river,  winding  in  its  course  below, 

Through  fertile  fields  where  yellowing  harvests  grow, 


12 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


The  bower ing  elms,  that  so  majestic  grew, 

A  green  arcade  for  waves  to  wander  through ; 

The  deep,  broad  valley  where  the  new  mown  hay 
Loads  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  rising  day, 

And,  distant  far,  Wachusett’s  towering  height, 

Blue  in  the  ling’ring  shadows  of  the  night, 

Have  power  to  move  the  sternest  heart  to  love, 
That  Nature’s  loveliness  could  ever  move. 

Ye  who  can  slumber  when  the  starlight  fades, 
And  clouds  break  purpling  through  the  eastern  shades 
Whose  care-worn  spirits  cannot  wake  at  morn, 

To  lead  your  buoyant  footsteps  o’er  the  lawn, 

Can  never  know  what  joy  the  ravished  sense, 

Feels  in  that  moment’s  sacred  influence. 

I  will  not  ask  the  meed  of  fortune’s  smile, 

The  flatterer’s  praise  that  masks  his  heart  of  guile, 

I  will  not  build  on  hope  of  present  fame, 

Nor  heed  the  slanderer  of  an  honest  name, 

So  I  can  walk  beneath  the  ample  sky, 

And  hear  the  bird’s  discordant  melody, 

And  see  reviving  Spring,  and  Summer’s  gloom, 

And  Autumn  bending  o’er  his  icy  tomb, 

And  hoary  Winter  pile  his  snowy  drifts, 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


13 


For  these  to  me  are  fortune’s  highest  gifts; 

And  I  have  found  in  poor  neglected  flowers, 
Companionship  for  many  weary  hours ; 

And  high  above  the  mountain’s  crest  of  snow, 
Communed  with  storm-clouds  in  their  wrath  below  ; 
And  where  the  vault  of  heaven,  from  some  vast  height 
Grew  black,  as  fell  the  shadows  of  the  night, 

Where  the  stars  seem  to  come  to  you,  I ’ve  wooed 
The  grandeur  of  the  fearful  solitude. 

From  such  communion,  feelings  often  rise, 

To  guard  the  heart  midst  life’s  perplexities, 

Lighting  a  heaven  within,  wfliose  deep  felt  joy 
Compensates  well,  for  Sorrow’s  dark  alloy. 

Then,  though  the  wrorldly  chide,  and  wealth  deny, 
And  passion  conquer  where  it  fain  would  fly, 
Though  friends  you  love  betray,  while  these  are  left, 
The  heart  can  never  wholly  be  bereft. 

Hard  by  yon  giant  elm,  wfliose  branches  spread 
A  rustling  robe  of  leaves  above  your  head ; 

Where  weary  travellers,  from  noonday  heat, 

Beneath  the  hospitable  shade  retreat, 

The  school-house  met  the  stranger’s  busy  eye, 

Who  turned  to  gaze  again,  he  knew  not  why. 

2 


14 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


Thrice  lovely  spot !  where,  in  the  classic  spring, 
My  young  ambition  dipped  her  fevered  wing, 

And  drank  unseen  the  vision  ^and  the  fire 

That  break  with  quenchless  glory  from  the  lyre ! — 

Amidst  thy  wealth  of  Art,  fair  Italy ! 

While  Genius  warms  beneath  thy  cloudless  sky, 

As  o’er  the  waking  marble’s  polished  mould, 

The  Sculptor  breathes  Pygmalion’s  prayer  of  old, 
His  heart  shall  send  a  frequent  sigh  to  rove, 

A  pilgrim  to  the  birthplace  of  his  love ! 

And  can  1  e’er  forget  the  hallowed  spot, 
Whence  springs  a  charm  that  may  not  be  forgot ; 
Where  in  a  grove  of  elm  and  sicamore 
The  Pastor  showed  his  hospitable  door, 

And  kindness  shone  so  constantly  to  bless 
That  sweet  abode  of  peace  and  happiness  ? 


The  oaken  bucket — where  I  stooped  to  drink 

jfhr  * 

The  crystal  water,  trembling  at  the  brink, 

Which  through  the  solid  rock  in  coldness  flowed, 
While  creaked  the  pond’rous  lever  with  its  load : 
The  dairy— where  so  many  moments  flew, 

With  half  the  dainties  of  the  soil  in  view  ; 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NAS  HAWAY. 


15 


Where  the  broad  pans  spread  out  the  milk  maid’s  care, 
To  feed  the  busy  churn  that  labored  there ; 

The  garden — where  such  neatness  met  the  eye, 

A  stranger  could  not  pass  unheeding  by ; 

The  orchard — and  the  yellow-mantled  fields, 

Each  in  its  turn  some  dear  remembrance  yields. 

Ye  who  can  mingle  with  the  glitt’ring  crowd, 
Where  Mammon  struts  in  rival  splendor  proud ; 

Who  pass  your  days  in  heartless  fashion’s  round, 
And  bow  with  hatred,  where  ye  fear  to  wound  ; 
Away  !  no  flatterer’s  voice  or  coward  sneer. 

Can  find  a  welcome,  or  an  altar  here. 

But  ye  who  look  beyond  the  common  ken, 
Self-unexalted  when  ye  judge  of  men, 

Who  conscious  of  defects,  can  hurry  by 
F aults,  that  lay  claim  upon  your  charity ; 

Who  feel  that  thrilling  vision  of  the  soul 
Which  looks  through  faith  beyond  an  earthly  goal, 
And  will  not  yet  refuse  the  homely  care, 

Which  every  being  shares,  or  ought  to  share ; 
Approach  !  the  home  of  Goodness  is  your  own, 

And  such  as  ye  are  worthy,  such  alone. 


16 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


When  Silence  hung  upon  the  Sabbath’s  smile. 
And  noiseless  footsteps  paced  the  sacred  aisle, 
When  hearts  united  woke  the  suppliant  lay, 

And  happy  faces  blessed  the  holy  day ; 

Oh  Nature  !  could  thy  worshipper  have  owned, 
Such  joy,  as  then  upon  his  bosom  throned ; 
When  feelings,  even  as  the  printless  snow, 

W ere  harmless,  guileless  as  a  child  can  know ; 
Or,  if  they  swerved  from  right,  were  pliant  still. 
To  follow  Virtue  from  the  path  of  ill? 

No  !  when  the  morning’s  old,  the  mist  will  rise 
To  cloud  the  fairest  vision  of  our  eyes ; 

As  hopes  too  brightly  formed  in  rainbow  dyes, 

A  moment  charm— then  vanish  in  the  skies ! 

Sweet  hour  of  holy  rest,  to  mortals  given, 

To  paint  with  love  the  fairest  way  to  heaven ; 
When  from  the  sacred  book  instruction  came 
With  fervid  eloquence  and  kindling  flame. 

No  mystic  rites  were  there  ;  to  God  alone, 

Went  up  the  grateful  heart  before  his  throne, 
While  solemn  anthems  from  the  organ  poured 
Thanksgiving  to  the  high  and  only  Lord. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


17 


Lo  !  where  yon  cottage  whitens  through  the  green, 
The  loveliest  feature  of  a  matchless  scene  ; 

Beneath  its  shading  elm,  with  pious  fear, 

An  aged  mother  draws  her  children  near ; 

While  from  the  holy  Word,  with  earnest  air, 

She  teaches  them  the  privilege  of  prayer. 

Look  !  how  their  infant  eyes  with  rapture  speak  ; 
Mark  the  flushed  lily  on  the  dimpled  cheek, 

Their  hearts  are  filled  with  gratitude  and  love, 

Their  hopes  are  centre’d  in  a  wrorld  above, 

Where  in  a  choir  of  angels,  faith  portrays 
The  loved,  departed  father  of  their  days. 

Beside  yon  grassless  mound,  a  mourner  kneels, 
There  gush  no  tears  to  sooth  the  pang  he  feels ; 

His  loved,  his  lost,  lies  coffined  in  the  sod, 

Whose  soul  has  found  a  dwelling-place  with  God ; 
Though  pressed  with  anguish,  mild  religion  shows 
His  aching  heart  a  balm  for  all  its  woes ; 

And  hope  smiles  upward,  where  his  love  shall  find, 
A  union  in  eternity  of  mind  ! 

Turn  there  your  eyes,  ye  cold,  malignant  crew7, 

Whose  vile  ambition  dims  your  reason’s  view, 

2* 


18 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NAS  HA  WAY. 


Ye  faithless  ones,  who  preach  religion  vain, 

And  childlike,  chase  the  phantoms  of  your  brain ; 
Think  not  to  crush  the  heart  whose  truth  has  sealed 
Its  confidence  in  heavenly  love  revealed. 

Let  not  the  atheist  deem  that  F ate  decrees 
The  lot  of  man  to  misery  or  ease, 

While  to  the  contrite  spirit,  faith  is  given, 

To  find  a  hope  on  earth,  a  rest  in  heaven. 

Unrivalled  Nashaway  !  where  the  willows  throw 
Their  frosted  beauty  on  thy  path  below, 

Beneath  the  vernant  drapery  of  the  trees, 

Luxurious  Fancy  woos  the  sighing  breeze. 

The  redbreast,  singing  where  the  fruit-tree  weaves 
Its  silken  canopy  of  mulb’ry  leaves  ; 

Enamelled  fields  of  green,  where  herding  kine 
Crop  the  wet  grass,  or  in  the  shade  recline  ; 

The  tapping  woodbird,  and  the  minstrel  bee, 

The  squirrel,  racing  on  his  nut-grown  tree, 

With  crowds  of  pleasant  dreams,  demand  in  vain 
Creative  thought  to  give  them  life  again. 

I  turn,  where  glancing  down,  the  eye  surveys 
Art  building  up  the  wreck  of  other  days ; 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


19 


For  graves  of  silent  tribes  upheave  the  sod, 

And  Science  smiles  where  savage  Philip  trod ; 
Where  winged  the  poisoned  shaft  along  the  skies, 
The  hammer  rings,  the  noisy  shuttle  flies ; 
Impervious  forests  bow  before  the  blade, 

And  fields  rise  up  in  yellow  robes  arrayed. 

No  lordly  palace  nor  imperial  seat, 

Grasps  the  glad  soil  where  freemen  plant  their  feet ; 
No  ruined  castle  here,  with  ivy  waves, 

To  make  us  blush  for  ancestry  of  slaves  ; 

But  lo  !  unnumbered  dwellings  meet  the  eye, 

Where  men  lie  down  in  native  majesty  : 

The  morning  birds  spring  from  their  leafy  bed, 

As  the  stern  ploughman  quits  his  happy  shed ; 

His  arm  is  steeled  to  toil — his  heart  to  bear 
The  robe  of  pain,  that  mortals  always  wear ; 

Though  wealth  may  never  come,  a  plenteous  board 
Smiles  at  the  pampered  richman’s  joyless  hoard  ; 
True,  when  among  his  sires,  no  gilded  heir 
Shall  play  the  fool,  and  damn  himself  to  care, 

But  Industry  and  Knowledge  lead  the  way, 

Where  Independence  braves  the  roughest  day. 


20 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


Nurse  of  my  country’s  infancy,  her  stay 
In  youthful  trials  and  in  dangers  day ; 

Diffusive  Education  !  ’tis  to  thee, 

She  owes  her  mountain-breath  of  Liberty  ; 

To  thee  she  looks,  through  time’s  illusive  gloom, 
To  light  her  path  and  shield  her  from  the  tomb ; 
Beneath  thine  iEgis,  tyranny  shall  fail, 

Before  thy  frown  the  traitor’s  heart  shall  quail ; 
Ambitious  foes  to  liberty  may  wear 
A  patriot  mask,  to  compass  what  they  dare, 

And  sting  the  thoughtless  nation,  while  they  smile 
Benignantly  and  modestly  the  while ; 

But  thou  shalt  rend  the  virtuous-seeming  guise, 
And  guard  her  from  the  worst  of  enemies. 

Eternal  power  !  whose  tempted  thunder  sleeps, 
While  heaven-eyed  mercy  turns  away  and  weeps 
Thou  who  didst  lead  our  fathers  where  to  send 
Their  free  devotions  to  their  God  and  friend ; 
Thou  who  hast  swept  a  wilderness  away, 

That  men  may  walk  in  freedom’s  cloudless  day ; 
Guard  well  their  trust,  lest  impious  faction  dare, 
Unlock  the  chain  that  binds  our  birthright  fair ; 
That  private  views  to  public  good  may  yield, 

And  honest  men  stand  fearless  in  the  field  ! 


VALLEY  OF  THE  NASHAWAY. 


21 


Once  more  I  turn  to  thee,  fair  Nashaway ! 
The  farewell  tribute  of  my  humble  lay ; 

The  time  may  come,  when  lofty  notes  shall  bear 
Thy  peerless  beauty  to  the  gladdened  air ; 

Now,  to  the  lyre  no  daring  hand  aspires, 

And  rust  grows  cankering  on  its  tuneless  wires. 
Our  lays  are  like  the  fitful  strains  that  flow 
From  careless  birds,  that  carol  as  they  go ; 
Content,  beneath  the  mountain  top  to  sing, 

And  only  touch  Castalia  with  a  wing. 


m 


MARGARET. 


“  She  never  told  her  love.” 

1  knew  an  orphan  girl,  whose  story  tells 
How  often  woman’s  heart  with  sorrow  swells, 
When,  with  devoted  love  she  gives  away 
Her  life-blood,  drop  by  drop,  in  sure  decay. 

It  is  a  simple  story,  but  to  me, 

Its  truth  comes  home  with  sad  reality. 

She  was  a  serving  maid,  whose  duties  were 
To  watch  the  children  placed  in  trust  with  her, 
And  wait  at  table  for  her  lady’s  call, 

Within  the  breakfast  room,  or  dining  hall. 

A  maid  of  sixteen  years,  of  twilight  eyes, 

Deep  set  and  dark,  and  fringed  with  pencil  dyes, 
Her  forehead  not  too  high,  where  thick  black  hair, 
Combed  smooth  and  parted,  showed  the  whiteness 
there ; 


MARGARET. 


23 


Her  lips  of  changeless  carmine,  often  parted 
With  dimpling  smiles,  when  sweet  sensation  started 
In  thoughts  so  pure,  an  angel’s  self  would  choose  ’em. 
Robed  in  the  blush  that  mantled  from  her  bosom ; 
Her  form  of  rounded  symmetry,  wThere  art 
That  makes  so  many  beauties,  bore  no  part ; 

With  mind  untutored,  yet  so  constituted, 

She  never  spake  amiss,  or  e’er  disputed ; 

A  girl  like  this,  who  would  not  love  and  cherish  ? 

Or  having  w’on  her  heart,  could  leave  that  heart  to 
perish  ? 

But  Margaret  was  not  flattered  :  no  fond  youth 
Had  lisped  the  tale  of  love  or  pledged  his  truth ; 
Though  many  a  sigh  shook  oft  the  frequent  tear, 
That  there  was  no  one  heart  to  her  more  dear  ; 

For  woman’s  love  grows  up  within  her  breast, 

Long  ere  it  find  a  place  wherein  to  rest, 

Like  some  poor  wandering  bird  along  the  wave, 
Whose  shelter,  often  proves,  alas  !  its  grave  ! 

There  was  a  youth  within  her  dwelling  place, 

Her  lady’s  son,  a  lad  of  manly  grace ; 

Whose  eighteenth  summer  lit  his  eye  with  fire, 


24 


MARGARET. 


Fanned  by  his  long  devotion  to  the  lyre  ; 

A  youth  with  happy  mien  and  thoughtful  mood. 
More  prone  to  self-communing  solitude, 

Than  noisy  revels,  with  a  heart  as  free 
From  guileful  deeds,  as  thoughts  of  treachery  ; 

His  hopes,  desires,  all  centre’d  in  one  maid, 

Who  loved  him  as  he  loved,  with  whom  he  strayed 
In  blissful  union,  arm  in  arm  along, 

Where,  from  the  trees,  gushed  out  the  robin’s  song 
Talking  of  love— romantic,  but  sincere, 

And  urging  time  to  quicken  his  career, 

When  by  the  holy  man,  the  knot  should  bind 
Their  married  hearts  in  wedlock  unconfined. 

But  other  maidens  loved  him  and  contest 
In  silent  grief,  the  tumult  of  the  breast, 

And  none  so  much  as  Margaret — her  heart 
By  slow  degrees,  unmoved  by  any  art, 

Stole  from  her  care,  with  such  sweet  pleasure  on. 
She  never  knew  the  danger,  till  ’twas  gone  ! 

She  ne’er  essayed  his  plighted  love  to  try, 

By  common  arts  of  female  coquetry, 

But  nursed  the  passion  quietly  within  : 


MARGARET. 


25 


A  passion,  such  as  never  dreamt  of  sin ; 

And  often  would  she  sit,  and  watch  the  smile 
Of  her  dear  infant  charge,  and  dream  the  while 
Of  Albert,  as  she  marked  within  their  faces, 

His  miniature,  with  all  imagined  graces ; 

And  she  would  stand  at  table,  and  lift  up 

Her  lovely  eyelids,  as  she  filled  his  cup, 

« 

So  tremblingly,  so  innocently  loving, 

Without  a  hope,  or  e’en  a  wish  of  moving  ; 

Crushing  with  her  dark  lashes,  the  rude  tear 
That  would  have  wet  her  cheek  when  he  was  near ! 

But  Margaret  was  wary — though  she  knew 
No  rude  suspicion,  with  her  loved  one  grew; 

And  she  would  save,  untouched,  the  plate  he  used, 
And  thence  partake  the  viands  he  refused. 

Kind  hearted  girl !  so  humble  and  so  true, 

What  happy  thought  those  simple  moments  knew ! 

But  Time  drank  up  her  tears,  and  Sorrow  now, 
Wept  out  her  life  blood — and  her  pallid  brow 
Grew  deadly,  and  the  hectic  on  her  cheek 
Mocked  the  dull  roses,  and  her  voice  grew  weak. 


3 


26 


MARGARET. 


Her  lips  were  red — but  with  the  purple  tide 
That  bubbled  from  her  heart, — and  so  she  died. 

I  did  not  watch  her  eyes  of  fading  light, 

Grow  dim,  then  brighten,  and  then  sink  in  night ; 
But,  oftentimes,  my  heart  with  anguish  weeps 
O’er  the  green  earth  where  hapless  Margaret  sleeps. 


PAINTING. 


Suggested  by  the  Portrait  of  a  beautiful  Piano-Fortist  in  Alexander’s  Gallery. 


I  stood  within  a  palace  of  the  maid, 

Whose  magic  wand  gives  life  to  light  and  shade, 
Where  every  tint,  harmoniously  combined, 
Embodied  the  divinity  of  mind. 

I  stood  in  silence — language  had  no  power 
To  break  the  grave-like  stillness  of  the  hour. 

A  vision  passed  before  me — on  a  throne 
Of  rosy  clouds,  girt  by  a  vestal  zone, 

Sat  the  fair  queen  of  soft  and  shadowy  things, 
More  beautiful  than  love’s  imaginings ; 

Her  language,  like  the  language  of  the  flowers 
That  wave  among  the  music-dropping  bowers, 
Or  like  the  voices  of  the  quiet  skies, 

Was  only  felt  in  unheard  harmonies. 

Her  eye  was  calmer  than  the  breathless  wave, 


28 


PAINTING. 


Save  when  a  transient  gleam  from  heaven  gave 
Sublimer  lustre - 

And  then  the  flash  was  instant,  for  I  saw 
Its  light  grow  milder  than  it  shone  before. 

>  She  waved  a  delicate  and  shining  wand, 

Fair  as  the  lily-texture  of  her  hand, 

And  waved  but  once,  for  as  it  passed  the  air, 

A  rainbow,  following,  arched  in  glory  there, 

When,  quick  as  thought,  her  pencil  caught  its  dyes, 
And  lo  !  the  vision  brightened  to  my  eyes. 

I  saw  a  crowd  of  airy  forms  pass  on, 

And  kneel  before  her  feet — and  there  was  one 
Of  highest  personal  beauty,  such  as  steals 
Our  manhood  from  us — wounds,  and  never  heals. 
Another  came  of  loftier  mien — a  maid, 

I  knew  her  by  the  softness  of  her  shade ; 

By  the  sweet  mellowness  all  objects  caught, 
Reflected  from  a  mind  with  fancy  fraught. 

Another  came — another — and  another  ; 

Infants  that  stole  the  smiles  of  a  fond  mother, 

And  many  happy  faces,  where  was  naught 

But  laughing  gladness  throned,  in  place  of  thought ; 


PAINTING. 


29 


And  there  were  bards  of  intellect  divine, 

One,  who  had  tuned  his  harp  for  Palestine ; 

Another,  who  had  scattered  many  a  gem, 

Lavish  of  mental  wealth  ;  whose  diadem, 

The  muses  now  are  forming  in  the  shade, 

To  brighten  on  through  ages  and  not  fade. 

And  there  was  one,  whose  lyre,  but  newly  strung, 
Sent  forth  a  melancholy  strain,  and  flung 
A  sadness  o’er  the  heart — but  he  shall  live 
Even  in  the  very  sadness  he  may  give. 

So  passed  they  on — while  I,  in  mute  surprise, 

Wept  inwardly,  so  gladdened  were  mine  eyes  ; 

And  as  I  knelt  to  worship,  lo  !  again 

She  waved  her  wand,  and  darkness  wrapt  my  brain, 

While  music  filled  the  air  with  gentler  strains, 

Than  e’er  aerial  lyre  from  seraph  gains  ; 

And  then  it  swelled  to  loudness,  till  its  crash, 

Came  like  the  sounding  Avalanche’s  dash, 

That  made  my  spirit  pray  it  might  be  free, 

And  never  lose  such  fine  sublimity. 

Light  came  to  me  again,  and  oh !  how  fair, 

How  brightly  delicate  the  minstrel  there ; 

Her  eyes  were  fixt  upon  the  list’ning  skies, 

3* 


30 


PAINTING. 


That  looked  the  fulness  of  their  ecstacies  ; 

Her  dark  locks  flowing  down  her  glowing  face, 
Shaded  its  lustre  with  such  gentle  grace, 

One  would  have  thought  the  softest  hues  of  night 
Had  gathered  round  Aurora  in  her  light. 

A  harp  stood  by  Apollo  might  have  swept, 

While  o’er  the  thrilling  strings  her  fingers  leapt, 
Racing  so  emulously  fast,  they  seemed 
Pearls  raining  upon  ivory,  yet  gleamed 
With  a  more  feminine  whiteness,  while  the  notes, 
That  gushed  as  from  a  thousand  warbling  throats, 
Held  the  rapt  soul  in  such  sweet  ecstacy, 

Full  well  I  knew  it  was  my  hour  to  die. 

Then  came  again  the  forms  that  passed  before, 
Bowing  in  joyous  homage  to  adore. 

The  rainbow-queen  looked  pleasure  as  she  spake, 
u  Behold  what  Art’s  magician  hand  can  make  ; 

“  Awake  !  thy  dream  is  past,  and  now  decide, 

“  Of  Art  and  Nature,  which  shall  hence  preside.” 

I  woke,  and  with  me  woke  the  dulcet  strain, 

My  heart  drunk  in  the  mingled  notes  again ; 


PAINTING. 


31 


It  was  no  dream,  the  minstrel’s  self  was  there, 

But  oh !  than  Art’s  how  more  divinely  fair  ! 
Queen  of  the  magic  wand  !  thy  power  may  move 
To  charm  the  heart,  but  Nature,  makes  it  love  ! 


THE  BURIED  LOVE. 


I  have  often  thought  that  flowers  were  the  alphabet  of  Angels,  whereby 
they  write  on  hills  and  fields  mysterious  truths. — The  Rebels. 

She  sleeps  the  quiet  sleep  of  death, 

The  maid  who  lies  below, 

And  these  are  Angel-missioned  flowers, 

That  o’er  the  green  turf  grow. 

And  they  are  sent  to  warn  the  fair, 

How  transient  is  their  bloom  ; 

See  !  how  they  bend  their  tender  forms 
And  weep  upon  her  tomb. 

The  blush  upon  her  living  cheek, 

Had  shamed  the  morning  skies; 

And  di’mond  light,  is  not  more  bright, 

Than  were  her  youthful  eyes. 

To  see  her,  on  a  summer’s  day, 

Gave  love  a  lighter  wing ; 


THE  BURIED  LOVE. 


And  happy  thoughts  would  crowd  the  heart, 
And  gush  from  many  a  spring. 

I  know  the  language  of  the  flowers, 

And  love  to  hear  them  grieve, — 

When  crims’ning  to  the  eye  of  morn, 

Or  drooping  to  the  eve. 

I  listened  when  the  star  of  love 
Shone  through  the  blue  serene  ; 

When  twilight  held  her  silent  wake, 

Beneath  the  crested  queen. 

They  told  of  her  whose  spirit  comes 
To  breathe  upon  their  leaves ; 

And  can  I  choose  but  love  the  breath, 

That  once  was  Genevieve’s  ? 

She ’s  gone,  where  sorrow  may  not  come, 
Where  pain  may  never  be  ; 

But  she,  who  lives  an  angel  still, 

May  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Though  gone,  alas  !  her  blushing  smile, 

Who  sleeps  in  sweet  repose, 


34 


THE  BURIED  LOVE. 


I  joy  to  find  its  mimic  grace, 

Still  living  in  the  rose.  - 

Then  will  I  love  the  modest  flower, 
And  cherish  it  with  tears  ; 

It  minds  me  of  my  fleeting  time, 

Yet  chases  all  my  fears. 

And  when  my  hour  of  rest  shall  be, 

I  will  not  weep  my  doom ; 

So,  Angel-missioned  flowers  may  come 
And  gather  round  my  tomb  ! 


ALBUQUERQUE. 


A  storm  was  on  the  deep — 

And  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 

Called  the  darkness  from  its  sleep, 

In  the  fierce  tornado’s  path  : — 

The  ocean  waves  went  up  among 
The  thunder-spirit’s  choir — 

Recoiling  as  the  death  note  rung 
From  their  canopy  of  fire. 

“  Awake  !  awake  ! — behold 

“  Death  throned  among  the  clouds  ! 

“  The  sands  of  life  are  told — 

“  The  waves  must  be  our  shrouds.” — 
Thus  spake  the  chief,  while  clinging  round 
The  shrieking  concourse  stood, 

Waiting  the  sulph’rous  bolt  to  sound 
Their  requiem  for  the  flood. 

Stern  Albuquerque  that  hour 
Showed  horror  on  his  brow, 


3G 


ALBUQUERQUE. 


While  conscience,  in  her  power, 

Made  his  haughty  heart  to  bow — 

Hot  lightning  blackened  many  a  corse, 

And  cleft  his  bending  mast, 

While  bounding,  like  a  reinless  horse, 

On  went  the  proud  ship  fast. 

Pressed  down  with  guilty  fear, 

He  knew  his  turn  might  be — 

Another  bolt  fell  near, 

And  burst  upon  the  sea ; — 

When,  from  a  mother’s  bosom  blest, 

He  snatched  her  infant  care, 

And  clasping  it  before  his  breast, 

Defied  the  lightning’s  glare. 

“  Now  strike  ! — I  stand  prepared — 

“  Hurl  down,  proud  Heaven  !  thy  worst, 
“For  Innocence  is  bared 
“  Before  a  bosom  cursed  !” 

He  stood — the  tempest  fell  asleep — 

The  hurricane  passed  o’er. — 

His  arms  that  keep  the  mighty  deep, 
Showed  mercy  and  forbore  ! 


mm\]\  or 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 

/ 

The  moon  poured  down  her  mellow  light  like  silver  on 
the  sea, 

And  not  a  breath  disturbed  the  wave,  in  its  blue 
tranquility ; 

No  sound  w7as  on  the  midnight  ear,  save  of  the 
dipping  oar, 

While  a  Moorish  galley  anchored  lay  beneath  the 
Moslem  shore. 

Full  many  a  tear  drop  swelled  the  sea  that  calm  and 
quiet  night, 

And  many  an  aching  breast  grew  cold  with  hope’s 
expiring  light ; 

For  warriors,  bowled  beneath  their  chains,  obeyed  the 
lashes’  smart, 

And  thought  upon  their  native  land  with  heaviness  of 
heart. 

4 


38 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 


Among  the  captives  doomed  to  wear  their  weary  lives 
away, 

And  tug  to  rest  the  lazy  wind  with  labor  day  by  day ; 

There  was  a  Spanish  youth,  who  long  had  been  a 
bondman  there, 

Chasing  the  minutes  as  they  lagg’dby  sighing  to  the  air. 

Juan  had  loved  and  was  beloved,  and  gave  his  hand 
and  heart, 

But  the  silken  bands  of  love  were  tied,  alas  !  too  soon 
to  part ; 

His  country  called  to  arms — he  rose  and  answered 
to  her  call, 

And  chance  of  war  decreed  his  fate  to  be  a  Moorish 
thrall. 

The  day  had  been  a  heavy  one,  though  their  hope¬ 
less  task  wras  done, 

For  they  had  toiled  from  breaking  day,  nor  ceased  ai 
setting  sun ; 

While  many  bent  their  earnest  thoughts,  far  to  theii 
native  shore, 

The  weary  Juan  fell  asleep,  and  sunk  upon  his  oar. 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 


39 


Ob  Sleep  !  thou  art  the  first  and  last — the  surest 
blessing,  given 

To  be  life’s  interview  with  death — our  only  gleam  of 
heaven  ; 

Without  thy  shadowing  wing,  how  dull  were  e’en  the 
joys  of  life ; 

Without  thy  honey-balm  for  care — how  hopeless  were 
the  strife  ! 

And  dreams  of  joy  came  o’er  the  youth,  too  pure  for 
aught  but  dreams. 

Like  youthful  images  of  love,  or  morning’s  rosy  beams, 

For  he  had  broken  from  his  chains,  and  passed  the 
hated  sea, 

And  stood  upon  his  native  land,  in  the  pride  of  liberty. 

Why  gushed  the  tear-drops  from  his  eye,  why  swelled 
his  gallant  soul 

With  thought,  he  long  had  cherished  deep,  and  could 
not  now  controul  ?  ' 

Think,  how  his  own  dear  cottage  grew  upon  his  eager 
sight, 

And  ask  not  why  his  crowded  heart  felt  agonized 
delight ! 


40 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 


The  fruit  trees  in  their  white  spring  robes  so  purely 
blossoming, 

The  wild-wood  where  the  happy  birds  were  gaily 
wantoning, 

The  little  garden  where  the  flowers  wTere  telling  tales 
of  love, 

Had  power  to  move  the  wanderer’s  heart,  as  nothing 
less  could  move. 

The  blue  smoke  curling  o’er  the  roof,  told  of  ti  e 
dwellers  there, 

The  weedless  path  and  garden  spot  spake  of  their 
tender  care  ; 

But  was  his  widowed  wife  still  there,  and  might  he 
hope  his  child, — 

His  father  as  he  blest  his  boy — his  mother  as  she 
smiled  ! 

$ 

Winged  with  the  tortures  of  suspense,  he  urged  the 
nearest  way, 

F ear  struggling  with  his  guardian  Hope,  to  quench  her 
cheering  ray ; 

A  moment — and  the  gate  was  passed,  the  garden 
and  the  door, 

And  Juan  knelt  in  silent  joy  upon  his  cottage  floor. 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 


41 


Well  has  the  noble  bard  declared  young  love’s  redeem¬ 
ing  hours, 

That  pay  us  for  a  life  of  ill,  with  a  paradise  of  flowers. 

Then  think  what  wealth  of  happiness  the  captive’s 
heart  could  boast, 

As  the  glad  tears  shone  upon  the  breast  of  her  he 
loved  the  most ! 

There  knelt  his  silver-headed  sire,  in  deep  but  speech¬ 
less  prayer, 

With  her  who  only  knows  full  well  a  parent’s  joy  and 
care ; 

And  see  !  the  blooming  infant  boy,  with  eyes  upturned 
and  wild, 

How  he  clings  upon  a  father’s  arms,  that  now  embrace 
his  child. 

Alas  !  that  dreams  are  only  dreams,  that  fancy  cannot 
give 

A  lasting  beauty  to  those  forms  that  scarce  a  mo¬ 
ment  live ; 

Alas  !  that  youth’s  fond  hopes  should  fade,  and  love 
be  but  a  name, 

While  its  rainbows  followed  near  so  fast,  are  distant 
still  the  same. 


42 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 


The  moon  was  fading  fast  away  behind  the  gloomy 
shore, 

The  sea-breeze  brought  the  sullen  sound  of  the 
waking  ocean’s  roar ; 

And  Juan’s  dream  of  love  passed  off  with  the  moon¬ 
light  from  the  wave, 

When  by  the  clanking  of  his  chains  he  woke  a  galley 
slave. 


LOVE  UNCHANGEABLE. 


Yes!  still  I  love  thee — Time  who  sets 
His  signet  on  my  brow, 

And  dims  my  sunken  eye,  forgets 
The  heart  he  could  not  bow ; — 
Where  love,  that  cannot  perish,  grows 
For  one,  alas  !  that  little  knows 
How  love  may  sometimes  last ; 
Like  sunshine  wasting  in  the  skies, 
When  clouds  are  overcast. 

The  dew-drop  hanging  o’er  the  rose, 
Within  its  robe  of  light, 

Can  never  touch  a  leaf  that  blows, 
Though  seeming ,  to  the  sight ; 

And  yet  it  still  will  linger  there, 

Like  hopeless  love  without  despair, — 
A  snow-drop  in  the  sun  ! 

A  moment  finely  exquisite, 

Alas  !  but  only  one. 


44 


LOVE  UNCHANGEABLE. 


I  would  not  have  thy  married  heart 
Think  momently  of  me, — 

Nor  would  I  tear  the  cords  apart, 

That  bind  me  so  to  thee  ; 

No  !  while  my  thoughts  seem  pure  and  mild, 
Like  dew  upon  the  roses  wild, 

I  would  not  have  thee  know, 

The  stream  that  seems  to  thee  so  still, 

Has  such  a  tide  below  ! 

Enough  !  that  in  delicious  dreams, 

I  see  thee  and  forget — 

Enough,  that  when  the  morning  beams, 

I  feel  my  eye-lids  wet ! 

Yet,  could  I  hope,  when  Time  shall  fall 
The  darkness,  for  creation’s  pall, 

To  meet  thee — and  to  love, — 

I  would  not  shrink  from  aught  below, 

Nor  ask  for  more  above. 


MORAL  BEAUTY. 


’T  is  not  alone  in  the  flush  of  morn, 

In  the  cowslip-bell  or  the  blossom-thorn, 

In  noon’s  high  hour,  or  twilight’s  hush, 

In  the  shadowy  stream,  or  the  roses’  blush, 

Or  in  aught  that  bountiful  Nature  gives, 

That  the  delicate  Spirit  of  Beauty  lives. 

Oh  no  !  it  lives,  and  breathes,  and  lies, 

In  a  home  more  pure  than  the  morning  skies ; 

In  the  innocent  heart  it  loves  to  dwell, 

When  it  comes  with  a  sigh  or  a  tear  to  tell 
Sweet  visions  that  flow  from  a  fount  of  love, 

To  mingle  with  all  that  is  pure  above. 

It  dwells  with  the  one  whose  pitying  eye 
Looks  out  on  the  world  with  charity ; 

Whose  generous  hand  delights  to  heal 
The  w’ounds  that  suffering  mourners  feel, 
Without  a  wish  or  a  hope  or  thought 
That  light  should  shine  on  the  deeds  it  wrought. 


46 


MORAL  BEAUTY. 


It  dwells  in  the  heart  that  naught  inspires, 

But  manly  feelings,  and  high  desires ; 

Where  nothing  can  come  like  a  selfish  dream, 
When  visions  of  glory  around  it  gleam, 

Proud  visions  that  show  to  the  gifted  mind, 

The  boundless  sphere  of  the  human  kind. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  Beauty  !  my  dreams  are  thine, 
But  I  loose  thee  not  when  the  day-beams  shine 
Thy  image  is  still  to  my  constant  gaze, 

At  midnight  hour,  or  noontide  blaze  ; 

And  none  but  one  with  a  heart  unsold, 

Can  know  the  bliss  which  thy  lovers  hold* 


ANACREONTIC. 


/• 


Fill  again  the  mantling  bowl, 

Nor  fear  to  meet  the  morning  breaking  ! 

9 

None  but  slaves  should  bend  the  soul, 
Beneath  the  chains  of  mortal  making. 

Fill  your  beakers  to  the  brim, 

Bacchus  soon  shall  lull  your  sorrow  ; 

Let  delight, 

But  crown  the  night, 

And  Care  may  bring  her  clouds  to-morrow. 

Mark  this  cup  of  rosy  wine, 

With  virgin  pureness  deeply  blushing ; 
Beauty  pressed  it  from  the  vine, 

While  Love  stood  by  to  charm  its  gushing 
He  who  dares  to  drain  it  now, 

Shall  drink  such  bliss  as  seldom  gladdens  ; 
The  Moslem’s  dream, 

Would  joyless  seem, 

To  him  whose  brain  its  rapture  maddens. 


48 


ANACREONTIC. 


Pleasure,  sparkles  on  the  brim, 

Lethe,  lies  far  deeper  in  it — 

Both ,  enticing,  wait  for  him, 

Whose  heart  is  warm  enough  to  win  it ; 
Hearts  like  ours,  if  e’er  they  chill, 

Soon  with  Love  again  must  lighten, 

Skies  may  wear 
A  darksome  air, 

Where  sunshine  most  is  known  to  brighten. 

Then  fill !  fill  high  the  mantling  bowl, 

Nor  fear  to  meet  the  morning  breaking, 
Care  shall  never  cloud  the  soul, 

While  Beauty’s  beaming  eyes  are  waking ; 
Fill  your  beakers  to  the  brim, 

Bacchus  soon  shall  lull  your  sorrow, 

Let  delight, 

But  crowi  the  night, 

And  Care  may  briag  her  clouds  to-morrow. 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 


Whene’er  the  lightsome  dance,  and  mad’ning  glare 
Of  Fashion’s  gay  assemblage,  shall  allure 
Thy  gentle  wishes,  that  are  always  pure, 

And  lead  thee  to  eclipse  the  brightest  there  ; 

Amidst  the  syren  smiles  that  flatterers  wear, 
Remember  then — I  know  thou’lt  not  forget — 
The  lesson  which  I  taught  thee,  when  we  met, 
Where  the  still  moonlight  as  a  carpet  lay, 

For  airy  forms  to  move  on — when  the  dews 
Hung  tremulously  bright,  like  that  array 
Of  planetary  glories,  that  diffuse 
Rays  from  their  countless  sources  ever  bright, 
Geming  the  ebon  coronal  of  night ; 

For  I  would  have  thee  feel,  that  Nature’s  charms 
Can  lull  thy  restless  thoughts,  that  thou  canst  draw 
From  her  exhaustless  fountain,  evermore, 

High  thoughts  to  shield  thee  from  the  wild  alarms 

And  mad  distractions  of  a  world  like  this ; 

5 


50 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 


That,  should  thy  heart  aspire  to  present  bliss, 

The  thought  were  vain — for  pleasure,  like  a  shade, 
Will  fly  before  thee  and  elude  thy  hold ; 

That,  Nature’s  charms  alone  are  manifold, 

In  all  the  simple  guilelessness  displayed 
Of  vestal  innocence — that  she  can  mould 
Thy  passions  so,  that  they  shall  be  thy  aid. 

Thus  shall  thy  days  in  happiness  grow  old, 

Thy  soul  high  towering  in  its  flight  sublime ; 

And  should  thy  joys  on  earth  grow  dark  and  cold. 
Thy  heart  may  find  a  rest  above  the  cares  of 

time ! 


SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


The  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 

And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight ; 

I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 

By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 

F or  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  round  her,  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  crimson  wings ; 

Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstacy. 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet, 

She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves 
As  it  smilingly  curls  like  a  maiden’s  lip, 


52 


SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 


When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain. 
From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again 

At  eve  she  hangs  o’er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy, 

And  round  the  skirts  of  their  deepened  fold, 

She  paints  a  border  of  purple  and  gold, 

Where  the  ling’ring  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 

When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power, 
She  silvers  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 
With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream ; 

Then  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladdened  air 
The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  every  where. 


STANZAS 


WRITTEN  FOR  MUSIC. 

The  dews  that  tremble  on  the  flowers, 

When  moonlight  drops  its  silvery  veil, 

Are  only  tears  of  tristful  hours, 

That  weep  to  leave  the  nightingale. 

Then,  while  the  light-winged  hours  are  weeping 
Shall  beauty  close  her  eyes, 

When  Love,  within  her  bosom  sleeping, 

Can  only  dream  of  ecstacies  ? 

Oh  !  Mary,  yield  to  music’s  power, 

And  listen  to  thy  lover’s  prayer, 

The  fragrance  of  the  woodbine  bower 

Is  waiting  to  receive  us  there  ; 

And  shall  we  live,  while  life  is  fleeting, 

Without  one  hour  of  love, 

When  swelling  hearts  with  rapture  meeting, 

May  wing  their  vows  of  truth  above  ? 

5* 


54 


STANZAS. 


But  if  thy  faith,  so  warmly  plighted, 

Be  changed  for  one  less  truly  thine, 

If  Love  must  see  his  chaplet  blighted, 

And  Hope  desert  her  favored  shrine ; 

Let  not  the  sigh  of  sorrow  wake  thee, 

Thy  lover’s  grief  to  tell, 

Whose  breaking  heart  could  ne’er  forsake  thee, 
Whose  tongue  could  never  say  farewell ! 


* 


SPRING. 


Hail  to  thee,  gentle  Spring, 

With  thy  softened  gales  appearing  ! 
As  a  prisoned  bird  let  free, 

My  heart  leaps  at  thy  coming. 

Stern  winter  shuns  thy  smile, 

Or  melts  it  into  tears  before  thee. 

Look  !  how  the  budding  trees 
Wave  to  their  joyous  mother  ; 

How  the  gay  floweret  breathes 
The  perfume  of  its  beauty ; 

How  the  glad  fields  arise, 

And  clothe  themselves  in  verdure  ! 

The  frozen  clouds  of  Winter 
Are  grateful  even  to  weeping ; 

How  warm  they  grow  in  the  sunshine 
Pillowed  on  the  deep  blue  sky, 


56 


SPRING.  * 


Or  floating  in  careless  pleasure 
With  the  singing  birds  of  morning  ! 

The  sleepless  streams  move  onward 
Through  beds  of  idling  lilies, 

Chiding  the  foolish  flowers 

That  wTatch  their  mirrored  beauty ; — 

So  live  the  thoughtless  many, 

Who  throng  the  halls  of  fashion  ! 

Come  to  me  smiling  Spring  ! 

Come  to  my  inmost  bosom  ; 

I  would  clasp  thee  to  my  heart, 

For  my  love  yearns  to  embrace  thee. 
Wake  in  me  early  visions, 

Visions  that  used  to  bless  me  ! 


SONG. 


’T  is  the  season  of  tender  delight, 

The  season  of  fresh-springing  flowers  ; 

The  green  earth  is  covered  with  spangles  of  white, 
And  Love  leads  the  rapturous  hours. 

Glad  Nature  is  loud  in  her  transport  of  pleasure, 
The  vallies  and  mountains  re-echo  her  lay ; 

The  robin  now  warbles  his  love-breathing  measure. 

And  scatters  the  blossoms  while  tilting  the  spray. 
One  impulse  of  tenderness  thrills  through  the  groves, 
While  the  birds  carol  sweetly  their  innocent  loves. 

The  Westwind  !  how  mildly  he  blows, 

What  fragrance  his  light  pinions  bear — 

He  breathes,  as  if  fearful  to  brush  from  the  rose 
The  dew-drops  so  tremulous  there. 

The  brook  flowing  softly  among  the  green  cresses, 
So  lightsomely  dashes  their  branches  away, 

It  seems  some  fond  mother  who  while  she  caresses, 
Would  sportfully  chide  her  young  children  at  play. 


58 


SONG. 


Hear  the  minstrel-bee  lulling  the  blossoms  to  rest, 

F or  the  nectar  he  sips  as  the  wild-flowers  guest ! 

Look  out  then  on  Nature,  awhile  ; 

Observe  her  inviting  thee  now, — 

Benevolence  beams  in  her  sunshiny  smile, 

And  blandishment  sits  on  her  brow ; — 

Come  stray  with  me,  love,  where  the  fountains  are 
flowing, 

And  wild-flowers  cluster  to  drink  of  the  stream  ; 
While  watching  the  lily  and  daffodil  blowing, 

No  moment  of  bliss  shall  so  exquisite  seem. 

When  Nature  invites  thee,  oh  why  then  delay  ? 
While  joy  is  still  waking,  away  !  love,  away  ! 


STANZAS, 


Written  off  Point  Judith  Light-House. 


The  skies  have  rolled  their  clouds  away, 
To  drink  the  summer’s  cooler  breeze, 
Evening  weighs  down  the  eye  of  day, 
Chiding  the  idling  twilight  ray, 

Among  the  silent  trees ; — 

And  look  above  !  how  darkly  blue 

The  arch  of  night,  with  one  lone  cloud 
Parting  for  stars  to  glimmer  through ! 

The  waves  are  calm — the  wind  is  still,- 
While  the  full  moon,  in  glory  proud, 
Rides  like  Aurora  o’er  the  hill. 

Alas  !  that  aught  of  grief  should  lower, 
To  cloud  the  bliss  of  such  an  hour. 

Where  yon  pale  spire  is  dimly  seen, 
Robed  in  a  misty  veil  of  light, 


00 


STANZAS. 


Glancing  its  beacon-rays  between 
The  blended  lines  of  day  and  night ; 

I  marked  a  sea-bird  leave  her  bed, 

To  light  her  pathway  through  the  skies ; 
Lured  by  the  dazzling  form  she  fled, 

And  fluttering  round,  in  wild  surprise, 
Dashed  madly  at  the  vision  fair, 

Then  shrieked  and  poured  her  spirit  there. 

Oh,  what  a  glowing  image  this, 

Of  man’s  inconstancy  below, 

Too  restless  here  to  heed  the  bliss 

He  might  with  calm  contentment  know ; 
But  like  the  sea-bird  charmed  away 
By  Hope’s  destructive  meteor  ray, 

He  soars  above  the  halcyon  wave 
Of  sweet  content — and  hails  afar, 

Some  brighter  form  his  passions  crave ; 
But  finds,  alas  !  the  glittering  star 
That  lured  him  to  a  fairer  day, 

The  death-light  of  a  fevered  brain  ; 

And  feels,  too  late,  that  Hope  decay, 
Which  blighted,  never  blooms  again  ! 


GULN  ARE. 

Daughter  of  Beauty — Gulnare  ! 

Queen  of  the  delicate  graces, 

Whose  smile  is  a  minstrel  to  charm  away  care, 
And  lighten  wherever  it  traces, 

Health  to  thy  cheek,  where  the  mantle  of  morn 
Flushes  with  rosiest  tints  to  adorn. 

Long  may  the  zone  that  entwines 
Purity,  mildness,  affection, 

Shed  the  same  lustre  as  constantly  shines 
To  hallow  a  woman’s  perfection  ; 

And  long  may  the  smile  that  illumines  thy  brow, 
Live  on  as  it  lives  in  its  loveliness  now ! 

The  lily  may  die  on  thy  cheek, 

With  freshness  no  longer  adorning, 

The  rose  that  envelops  its  whiteness  may  seek 
To  take  back  her  mantle  of  morning  ; 


7 


62 


GUT, N  ARE. 


Y  et  still  will  Love’s  tenderness  beam  from  thine  eye, 
And  ask  for  that  homage  no  heart  can  deny. 

Thy  dark  hair  may  blanch  where  it  bends 
Over  eyes  of  cerulean  hue, 

That  melt  with  the  softness  the  Summer-moon  lends, 
To  mellow  her  pathway  of  blue,  ® 

Yet  still  will  I  love  thee  and  sweetly  repose 

On  the  bosom  where  true-love  with  constancy  grows. 


YARICO’S  LAMENT. 


Thy  bark  is  on  the  midnight  wave, 

Thy  thoughts  are  far  from  Love  and  me, 

And  Hope  has  found  a  cheerless  grave, 
Within  a  heart  still  true  to  thee. 

Thy  babe  is  on  my  aching  breast, 

Where  passion  breathed  a  fathers  sigh, 

When  that  cold  cheek  I  fondly  prest, 

And  wet  with  tears  I  could  not  dry. 

I  found  thee  on  my  father’s  isle — 

My  father  ! — nay  fond  memory  cease, 

I  would  not  think  of  one  whose  smile 
Can  only  light  the  wreck  of  peace  ! 

I  found  thee  friendless  and  alone, 

No  hand  to  soothe  thy  bed  of  pain ; 

Oh  Inkle,  did  my  bosom  own 
No  joy  to  see  thee  live  again  ! 


64 


YARICo’s  LAMENT. 


1  led  thee  where  the  lemon  grew, 

Where  waterfalls  and  fountains  played, 

* 

And  where  the  kind  banana  threw 
Her  arms  to  comfort  thee  with  shade. 

And  thou  did’st  swear  to  love  me  then, 
And  teach  me  how  the  Christians  pray 
And  tears  were  on  thine  eyelids,  when 
I  gave  my  virgin  heart  away. 

i 

My  heart !  oh,  do  not  break  so  soon, 
Throb  yet  awhile  to  cheer  my  boy, 
Kind  heaven,  but  grant  the  simple  boon, 
Nor  thus  my  life’s  poor  hold  destroy. 

Forgive  the  wrong  !  his  heart  is  mild, 
And  did  not  mean  to  give  me  pain ; 
Blest  image  !  come  my  tearless  child, 
And  let  me  dream  the  past  again  ! 


One  lovely  summer  day, 

When  birds  were  blithely  singing, 
And  care  had  flown  away, 

And  flowers  were  freshly  springing, 
I  wandered  forth  to  drink  the  air, 

And  waken  sweet  revealings, 

While  all  around  me  seemed  to  share, 
My  bosom’s  happy  feelings. 

Among  the  waving  trees, 

That  rustled  o’er  a  valley, 

Went  up  the  eddying  breeze, 

Through  a  cool  and  shady  alley  ; 
And  while  I  listened  to  the  rush 
Of  green  leaves  blown  together, 

The  robin  and  the  playful  thrush, 
Were  singing  in  the  heather. 


66 


MARY  HALL, 


But  soon  another  voice, 

As  though  an  angel  hovered, 

Made  every  bird  rejoice, 

Within  the  foliage  covered ; 

With  sweeter  tone  than  warbling  flute, 
It  lingered  on  my  hearing, 

While  other  sounds  were  only  mute, 

But  now,  so  much  endearing. 

* 

Beside  a  pebbly  brook, 

I  saw  a  woman  bending, 

And  joy  was  in  her  look, 

With  melancholy  blending ; 

And  close  behind  her,  o’er  a  blaze, 

A  water-vessel  boiling, 

Told  plainly  how  she  passed  her  days 
In  solitary  toiling. 

Charmed  by  her  syren  tongue, 

That  did  not  cease  for  me, 

I  asked  her  why  she  sung, 

And  looked  so  smilingly  ? 

She  told  me  that  she  felt  delight, 

That  God,  who  dwells  above  her. 


MARY  HALL,. 


67 


Allowed  her  toiling  day  and  night. 
To  buy  her  bondman  lover. 

Though  humble  thou  and  poor, 
And  of  a  race  enslaved, 

Still,  Mary  Hall,  endure 

What  all  thy  truth  has  braved  \ 

I  would  not  give  thy  honest  heart. 

So  full  of  noble  bearing- 
For  all  Potosi’s  mines  impart, 

Or  high  heroic  daring. 


J 


\ 


j 


TO  CRESSID. 


’T  is  not  the  fairest  form,  that  holds 
The  mildest,  purest  soul  within  ; 

’T  is  not  the  richest  plant,  that  folds 
The  sweetest  breath  of  fragrance  in. 

And  oft  within  the  rose’s  bower, 

A  lurking  insect  lies  unknown, 

That  steals  the  honey  from  the  flower, 
Before  its  outward  grace  has  flown. 

And  should  a  rude  wind  come  at  length, 
To  break  the  quiet  reigning  round, 

The  flower,  that  had  the  look  of  strength, 
Falls,  scarcely  heeded,  to  the  ground. 

Then  lady  !  cast  thy  pride  away, 

And  chase  those  rebel  thoughts  of  thine ; 

The  casket  may  be  bright  and  gay, 

Yet  all  within  refuse  to  shine. 


TO  CRESSID. 


69 


Beneath  a  shower  of  golden  light, 

The  ocean’s  breast  seems  warm  and  fair, 

But  when  the  shadows  fall  at  night, 

We  find  but  few  to  venture  there. 

Hast  thou  an  eye  for  Nature  made, 

A  heart,  to  feel  the  truth  she  bears ; 

Thou’lt  learn  a  lesson  from  her  shade, 

To  save  thee  from  thy  after-cares  ! 

For  should  misfortune  ever  lower, 

’T  will  cloud  those  charms  that  dazzle  so  ; 

And  friends,  who  greet  thy  fortune’s  power, 
Will  smile  upon  its  overthrow. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 


There ’s  not  a  bird  that  charms  the  air, 
There ’s  not  a  flower  that  scents  the  gale, 
There  ?s  not  a  bee  that  wantons  where 
The  wild-rose  gems  the  vale  ; 

But  each  has  some  secluded  shrine, 

The  leafy  tree,  or  fragrant  fold 
Of  blossoms,  that  in  clusters  shine, 

Its  happy  guest  to  hold. 

There ’s  not  a  heart,  whose  pulses  tell 
How  calm  or  wild  the  wish  within, 

•But  there  is  yet  some  secret  cell, 

No  stranger  eye  can  win. 

There,  records  sweet  of  vanished  hours, 

And  tristful  pangs  of  hope  deferred, 

As  light  and  shade  upon  the  flowers, 

Are  felt,  but  never  heard. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 


71 


For  many  a  sigh,  and  many  a  tear, 

And  many  a  grief  is  buried  there, 

While  Love’s  pale  image  lingers  near 
The  picture  of  despair.. 

This  wilderness  of  stainless  white, 

Like  beauty’s  guileless  heart,  unknown, 
Must  be  a  place  of  varied  light, 

Where  Thought  shall  build  his  throne. 

The  flatterer’s  breath  shall  taint  its  snow, 
While  many  a  heart  of  truth  shall  tell, 
The  wish  it  scarce  would  have  thee  know, 
Yet  cherishes  so  well. 

Then,  while  the  hours  enjoy  their  flight 
Among  the  flowers  that  grace  this  shrine, 
Oh,  may  one  smile  of  cloudless  light 
Remain  forever  thine ! 


SONNET 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 

Oh,  thou,  who  art  the  fairest  of  earths  daughters, 
Delighted  could  I  sit  a  summer’s  day, 

To  drink  the  music  of  thy  lips  away, 

Gushing  their  careless  melody  as  waters ; 

And  while  I  gazed  upon  thy  full  blue  eyes, 
Still  list’ning  to  thy  passion-kindling  songs 
Deem  myself  happiest  of  thy  votaries. 

Thus  while  the  morning  lark  his  notes  prolongs, 
Lists  the  rapt  bard,  and  bending  to  the  skies, 
Sends  up  the  incense  of  a  grateful  heart, 

For  such  a  gleam  of  heavenly  ecstacies, 

Oh  beautiful  in  feature — as  thou  art 

More  beautiful  in  mind — my  thoughts  of  thee 
Shall  live  in  Love’s  undying  memory ! 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 


I  ’ll  rob  the  hyacinth  and  rose, 

I  ’ll  search  the  cowslip’s  fragrant  cell, 
Nor  spare  the  breath  that  daily  blows 
Her  incense  from  the  asphodel. 

And  these  shall  breathe  thy  gentle  name, 
Sweet  naiad  of  the  sacred  stream  ! 
Where,  musing,  first  I  caught  the  flame 
That  passion  kindles  in  his  dream. 

Thy  soul  of  music  broke  the  spell 

That  bound  my  lyre’s  neglected  strings, 
Attuned  its  silent  echo’s  shell, 

And  loosed  again  her  airy  wings. 

Ah  !  long  had  beauty’s  eyes,  in  vain, 

Shone  o’er  its  strings  with  light  divine ; 

Alas  !  it  never  woke  again, 

’Till  inspiration  beamed  from  thine. 

7 


74 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 


Thus  vainly  did  the  stars,  at  night, 

O’er  Memnon’s  lyre  their  watch  prolong, 
When  naught  but  bright  Aurora’s  light 
Could  wake  its  silence  into  song. 


FADING  FLOWERS. 


AN  ILLUSTRATION. 

Within  a  bower  where  roses  blushed 
To  see  their  charms  outshone, 

At  evening,  when  the  world  was  hushed, 
A  maiden  sat  alone. 

The  moonlight,  blending  with  the  day, 
Shone  mildly  on  her  eyes, 

And  birds  were  dancing  on  the  spray, 
Showering  their  melodies. 

But  peace  has  left  her  maiden  heart, 
And  blighted  hopes  are  hers, 

While  fading  flowers  the  forms  impart 
Of  all  her  worshippers. 

The  smiles  that  used  to  greet  her  way, 
Have  ceased  to  light  her  feet, 


76 


FADING  FLOWERS. 


And  every  flower  appears  to  say, 

We  part,  no  more  to  meet. 

Oh  woman,  could  thy  bosom  know, 
How  rose-like  Love  must  die, 

Thy  heart  would  never  languish  so, 

In  silent  agony ; 

For  every  flower  that  fades  away 
Would  mind  thee  of  thy  doom, 

That  beauty’s  charm  and  beauty’s  sway 
Are  chaplets  for  the  tomb. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 


Now  while  the  star  of  Love  is  bright, 
Now  while  the  air  is  hushed  in  night, 
Come  where  the  roses  breathe  in  sleep, 
Ere  morning  wake  to  bid  them  weep, 
While  Beauty  folds  them  to  her  breast, 
And  bids  them  lie  in  gentle  rest, 

With  lullaby. 

Here  would  I  sit,  and  watch  those  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  summer  morning  skies, 
Then,  on  this  wildly  throbbing  breast, 
While  every  pulse  my  love  confest, 

Fain  would  I  see  thine  eyelids  close, 
Locked  in  the  fetters  of  the  rose, 

With  lullaby. 


TO  AN  INFANT 


SLEEPING  IN  A  GARDEN. 

Sleep  on,  sweet  babe  !  the  flowers  that  wake 
Around  thee  are  not  half  so  fair  ; 

Thy  dimpling  smiles  unconscious  break, 

Like  sunlight  on  the  vernal  air. 

Sleep  on  !  no  dreams  of  care  are  thine, 

No  anxious  thoughts  that  may  not  rest ; 

For  angel  arms  around  thee  twine, 

To  make  thy  infant  slumbers  blest. 

Perchance  her  spirit  hovers  near, 

Whose  name  thy  infant  beauty  bears, 

To  guard  thine  eyelids  from  the  tear 
That  every  child  of  sorrow  shares. 

Oh  !  may  thy  life  like  her’s  endure, 
Unsullied  to  its  spotless  close ; 

And  bend  to  earth  as  calm  and  pure 
As  ever  bowed  the  summer  rose. 


WILT  THOU  GO  FAR  AWAY? 


Wilt  thou  go  far  away  from  this  dark  world  with  me, 
To  an  isle  of  our  own,  in  a  warm  sunny  sea, 

Where  summer  lives  on,  in  a  soft  genial  clime, 

And  breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  orange  and  lime  ? 

Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  love  !  where  the  halcyon  hours 
Are  noiseless  as  angels,  that  move  among  flowers, 
Where  care  may  not  come  to  disturb  our  repose, 

As  the  calm  tide  of  pleasure  unsulliedly  flows  ? 

The  music  that  comes  on  the  citron-gale’s  wing 
Shall  wake  thee  at  morn,  and  new  happiness  bring, 
And  evening  shall  find  thee,  with  innocence  gay, 
Living  over  in  dreams  all  the  joys  of  the  day. 

The  bark  is  unmoored,  that  shall  bear  us  away, 

And  the  fresh  blowing  breeze  only  chides  our  delay ; 
Then  haste,  ere  the  summer  of  youth  has  gone  by, 
To  our  island  of  love  with  its  warm  sunny  sky  ! 


SPIRIT  OF  LOVE! 


Spirit  of  Love  !  away,  away, 

On  the  rosy  wings  of  the  blushing  day  $ 

I  Ve  a  dream  of  bliss  for  you  to  bear 
To  a  blue-eyed  beauty  with  chestnut  hair. 

You’ll  know  my  girl,  when  you  see  her  smile, 
For  her  eloquent  mouth  breathes  joy  the  while, 
And  her  dimpling  cheek  puts  on  a  hue, 

To  quicken  the  pulses  that  madden  you. 

If  sleep  be  still  on  her  modest  eyes, 

With  their  lashes  that  fall  like  the  evening  skies, 
If  you  hear  her  sigh,  or  her  lips  should  spread, 
To  show  the  pearls  in  their  coral  bed ; 

Whisper  in  music,  as  soft  and  clear 
As  spirits  in  slumber  are  wont  to  hear, 

My  dream  of  love,  which  you  shall  hold 
In  the  warm  embrace  of  your  angel  fold. 


SPIRIT  OF  LOVE. 


81 


Then  bring  me  back,  ere  the  twilight  die, 

My  dream  again  through  the  glowing  sky, 

That  my  heart  may  cherish  the  sighs  that  went 
From  the  bosom  of  one  so  innocent ! 


STANZAS. 


And  canst  thou  not  accord  that  heart 
In  unison  with  mine, 

Whose  language  thou  alone  hast  heard, 
Thou,  only,  canst  divine  : 

And  wilt  thou  not  revoke  thy  cold 
And  merciless  decree, 

Nor  yield  one  solitary  thought, 

To  plead  my  wrongs  to  thee  ? 

I  found  thee  yet  a  modest  flower, 

An  infant  of  the  spring, 

Unheeded,  in  the  rosy  crowd 
Of  beauty  blossoming  ; 

And  little  didst  thou  think,  how  clear 
Thy  spirit  round  me  shone, 

To  light  the  inward  joy  of  hope 
My  tongue  could  never  own. 

I  saw  thee  in  the  gay  saloon 
Of  fashion’s  glittering  mart, 


STANZAS. 


83 


Where  Mammon  buys  what  Love  deplores, 
Where  Nature  yields  to  Art; 

And  thou  wert  so  unlike  the  herd, 

My  kindling  heart  despised, 

I  could  not  choose  but  yield  that  heart, 
Though  Love  were  sacrificed. 

The  smile  which  hung  upon  thy  lips, 

In  transport  with  their  tone, 

The  music  of  thy  thoughts,  which  breathed 
A  magic  theirs  alone ; 

The  look,  which  spake  a  soul  so  pure, 

So  innocent  and  gay, 

Have  passed,  like  other  golden  hopes 
Of  Happiness,  away. 

•  f 

My  life  has  been  a  dream  of  light, 

Of  loveliness  and  love  ; 

While  serpents  coiled  beneath  my  path, 

And  roses  bloomed  above ; 

And  yet  a  wicked  whisper  comes, 

Like  madness,  to  my  brain, 

And  bids  me  dream  as  I  have  dreamt, 

And  never  wake  again. 


ANNE  BULLEN. 


I  weep  while  gazing  on  thy  modest  face, 

Thou  pictured  history  of  woman’s  love  ! 

Joy  spreads  his  burning  pinions  on  thy  cheek, 
Shaming  its  whiteness ;  and  thine  eyes  are  full 
Of  conscious  beauty,  as  they  undulate. 

Yet  all  thy  beauty,  poor  deluded  girl ! 

Served  but  to  light  thy  ruin. — Is  there  not, 

Kind  heaven  !  some  secret  talisman  of  hearts 
Whereby  to  find  a  resting-place  for  love  ? 
Unhappy  maiden  !  let  thy  story  teach 
The  beautiful  and  young,  that  while  their  path 
Softens  with  roses — danger  may  be  there  ; 

That  love  may  watch  the  bubbles  of  the  stream, 
But  never  trust  his  image  on  the  wave. 


9 


SUNRISE 


PROM  MOUNT  WASHINGTON. 

The  laughing  hours  have  chased  away  the  night, 
Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem. — 

And  now  the  blue-ey  ed  Morn,  with  modest  grace 
Looks  through  her  half-drawn  curtains  in  the  east, 
Blushing  in  smiles  and  glad  as  infancy. 

And  see  !  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrowed  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy  steals  herself  away ! 

The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on, 
Attendant  on  the  day — the  mountain  tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons,  and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming ; — no  song  of  birds, 
Warbling  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 

Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze ;  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks ! 

The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry. 

8 


86 


SUNRISE  FROM 


I  stand  upon  thy  lofty  pinnacle, 

Temple  of  Nature !  and  look  down  with  awe 
On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen ; 
Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 

Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued  ; 

Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise 
Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer — now  they  seem 
A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 
Their  hoary  patriarch,  emulously  watching 
To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 

Far  in  the  glowing  east  the  flickering  light. 
Mellowed  by  distance,  with  the  blue  sky  blending,. 
Questions  the  eye  with  ever-varying  forms. 

The  sun  comes  up  !  away,  the  shadows  fling, 

From  the  broad  hills — and,  hurrying  to  the  West, 
Sport  in  the  sunshine,  ’till  they  die  away. 

The  many  beauteous  mountain-streams  leap  downr 
Out-welling  from  the  clouds,  and  sparkling  light 
Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 

Amd  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river’s  path, 

The  glad  Connecticut !  I  know  her  well, 

By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o’er  her  charms : 

At  times,  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON 


87 


Sportfully  hiding — then  again,  with  glee, 
Out-rushes  from  her  wild-wood  lurking-place. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves, 

And  hills  and  rivers,  mountains,  lakes  and  woods, 
And  all  that  hold  the  faculty  entranced, 

Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 

And  sleep,  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy. 

There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  this  place, 

A  Presence,  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 

5Till  the  heart  pour  its  agony  in  tears. 

But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts  ; 

For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 

Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals,  to  grace 
These  towering  summits — bidding  me  away  : 

But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 

Thou  glorious  eminence  !  and  when  oppressed, 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 

Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee. 


SONNET. 


Look  !  how  the  young  Moon,  o’er  the  orange  west 
Walks  in  her  maiden  purity; — she  seems 
Adorned  in  brighter,  more  alluring  beams, 

To  flatter  all  that  look  the  loveliest. 

Tlie  sea-breeze  laps  him  to  his  halcyon  rest, 

Upon  the  dark-blue  waters — when  the  gleams 
Of  sheeting  moonlight  silver  o’er  his  dreams, 
And  melt  to  love  the  Atlantic’s  heaving  breast. 

The  stars  are  out,  and  beautiful  are  they, 

Cold,  but  still  beautiful,  a  crowded  choir, 
Harmonious  in  their  heavenly  minstrelsy  : 

And  I  would  fain,  with  beating  heart,  aspire 
To  their  communion, — but  this  weight  of  clay, 
Clings  to  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  vain  desire  ! 


SONG. 

Oh,  welcome  the  moment,  when  life’s  troubled 
dreams 

Give  way  to  the  rapture  of  soul ; 

When  true-hearts  are  met  where  Benevolence  beams, 
And  nothing  but  Love  can  control : 

When  the  joys  that  we  feel,  with  the  cares  that  have 
flown, 

So  mingle  their  sunshine  and  shade, 

That  Fancy  can  bask  in  a  blaze  of  her  own, 

And  worship  what  Genius  hath  made. 

We  have  met  once  again,  and  long  may  we  share 
The  union  of  Friendship  and  Love, 

While  our  hearts  burn  as  one,  through  the  midnight 
of  care, 

As  the  galaxy  brightens  above. 

Here,  then,  let  us  throw  off  the  mantle  of  wo, 

And  drink  to  the  present  and  past ; 


8* 


90 


SONG. 


Let  a  bumper  go  round,  and  our  glasses  o’erflow, 
’Till  happiness  crown  us  at  last. 

Should  anguish  and  sorrow  o’ershadow  our  way, 

And  Hope’s  phantom  beauty,  beguile ; 

While  Charity  lends  us  her  generous  ray, 

We  ’ll  live  in  the  light  of  her  smile. 

Thus,  while  darkness  envelopes  our  cold  wintry  skies, 
And  clouds  hang  their  tempests  between, 

The  Aurora  commands  her  own  Iris  to  rise, 

And  hallow  the  desolate  scene. 


I  5 V E  LISTENED  AT  EVE. 


I ’ve  listened  at  eve,  by  a  tranquil  lake, 

To  the  sweetest  song  that  love  could  wake, 

When  the  moon  shone  down  through  her  blue  serene, 
To  silver  the  leaves  of  the  woodland  green. 

I ’ve  listened  at  morn,  when  the  west  wind  came, 

To  cool  the  rose’s  blush  of  shame, 

When  the  nightingale’s  voice  through  the  tangled  trees 
Gladdened  the  bosom  with  ecstasies. 

But  ah  !  when  I  heard  thy  eloquent  lay, 

It  drove  ev’ry  charm  of  their  music  away ; 

And  I  thought  some  spirit  had  left  the  spheres, 

To  soothe  our  sorrow7,  and  dry  our  tears. 

Thy  lay  was  like  the  iEolian  lyre’s, 

When  an  angel  breathes  o’er  its  silken  wires  ; 

For  memory  slept  with  the  rising  strain, 

In  a  dream  of  bliss  till  it  ceased  again. 


\  i!  l  yn 

ffiftf!  id 

/  81 E  i.  u  11 


FLORA  CHANGED  TO  A  LILY 

When  Flora,  in  her  earliest  days, 

Taught  her  young  buds  to  blossom  round ; 

She  bade  them  freshen,  as  the  rays 
Of  morning  glittering  o’er  the  ground. 

She  chose  the  loveliest  that  grew, 

And  placed  them  at  Apollo’s  shrine ; 

For  they  were  fresh  and  budding  new, 

And  worthy  of  the  Power  divine. 

Apollo  pleased  with  such  a  boon, 

Attuned  his  lyre  to  passions  strain, 

And  taught  his  echo,  at  the  tune, 

To  wing  her  airy  flight  again. 

But  Venus  saw  what  Love  had  done, 

And,  jealous  of  her  Flora’s  power, 

Transformed  her  e’er  another  sun, 

From  beauty’s  form  to  beauty’s  flower- 


•;  iimiiv 

Mromlifil 

FLORA  CHANGED  TO  A  LILY .  93 

When  morning  came,  Apollo’s  rays 
Flew  quickly  where  they  loved  to  rest, 

But  soon  he  found  their  cheering  blaze 
Was  beaming  on  a  lily’s  breast. 

And  where  her  smile  once  played  alone, 

And  taught  the  god  of  light  to  smile, 

A  dew-drop  glistened,  while  his  song 
By  her  unheeded  was  the  while. 

And  now  at  summer  time  e’er  morn 
Breaks  beauteous  in  the  glowing  sky, 

The  brilliant  Queen  looks  down  upon 
Her  lily  bending  tearfully. 

But  ever  flies  as  light  appears, 

Ashamed  to  meet  the  god  of  day, 

Who  always  looks  her  into  tears, 

Until  she  weeps  herself  awTay  ! 


o 


\  li  f;  li  1 .1 


n  iniw 


* 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Valley  of  the  Nashaway,  5 


Margaret, 

Painting, 

The  Buried  Love, 

Albuquerque, 

The  Galley  Slave, 

Love  Unchangeable, 

Moral  Beauty, 

Anacreontic, 

To  Genevieve, 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  - 
Stanzas,  written  for  Music, 
Spring, 

Song, 

Stanzas,  written  off  Point  Judith 
Gulnare, 

Yarico’s  Lament,  - 
Mary  Hall,  - 
To  Cressid, 

For  an  Album, 

Sonnet  to  Genevieve, 

To  Genevieve, 

Fading  Flowers,  an  Illustration, 
Stanzas  for  Music 


-  22 

27 

-  32 
35 

-  37 
43 

-  45 
47 

-  49 
51 

-  53 
55 

-  57 

Light  House,  59 

-  61 
63 

-  65 
68 

-  70 
72 

-  73 
75 

-  77 


i 


96  CONTENTS. 

To  an  Infant;  -  78 

Wilt  thou  go  far  away,  -  -  -  79 

Spirit  of  Love,  -----  80 

Stanzas,  -  -  -  -  -  -  82 

Anne  Bullen,  84- 

Sunrise  from  Mount  Washington,  -  -  -  85 

Sonnet,  ------  83 

Song,  -  -  -  -  -  89 

I  ;ve  listened  at  Eve,  91 

Flora  changed  to  a  Lily,  -  -  -  -  92 


